My second glitter hoop

I'd been told that working with sparkle tape was extremely difficult and awfully expensive. It's true. I confirm it.

I used my sister as my unwitting guinea pig for my first glitter hoop foray, and, sadly for her, it failed. I made a series of mistakes that snowballed into mistake avalanche, so I just set it aside and considered it a learning experience. An expensive learning experience.

But, necessary.

I promised someone two glitter hoops, which is why my sister's hoop was the test-run. I definitely learned what not to do. The pink glitter hoop in the picture is attempt number two, and, trust me, it came off significantly improved. Didn't make it any easier or less expensive though.

Today is promised glitter hoop number three. All of this means my poor sister loses. I can't give her something I feel less than perfect about, and I don't have enough glitter tape left to find out the hard way that, oops, there's not enough for glitter hoop four.

And you know what the saddest part is? I don't even get a glitter hoop. Unless you count the learning experience hoop. Which I don't.

Happy Anniversary

I toast you with champagne for our nine years of marriage.

Beauty at Maitland

Sunflowers facing the sunset.

I can't even tell you what it was like

Really, not from lack of trying.

I had an MRI of the leg I broke today because of the continued pain I've had in it. The break happened October 29, 2007, but it still kills me. My orthopedic surgeon became concerned that maybe I have bone fragments in my ligaments, which is why I am having so much pain. He ordered an MRI to look at the whole shebang.

Ever had a CT-Scan? They suck. They're loud, you get slid around on this tiny bench that your arms don't fit on, and you always seem to go too far into the machine like the tech is messing up. My first CT I was scared. The second was fun because I got to see the inside of my head. My third was for the broken leg.

Because I couldn't hold my broken leg in the proper position, the CT technicians used surgical tape to tape me into place. Broken bone, contorted leg, taped stationery. It sucked. And it seemed to go on forever. I swear, for just needing to scan my ankle, they slid me in and out of that ring for eons. I could just imagine the conversation behind the glass wall:

"No Jimmy--move the knob left!"

"I said, Sarah, the knob goes right!"

"Left!"

"Right!"

At least that's what it felt like as I was jerked in and out of the machine, praying they'd release my poor leg and just give me my damn crutches back.

So I dreaded the MRI of the ankle. I've heard all the horror stories of the MRI--claustrophobia, can't move, bizarre anxiety reactions. And jeez, this was the big whammy up from the CT-Scan, which I hated by the third-go-round. What could the MRI possibly be like?

I don't know. I was put on that tiny bench your arms don't fit on, given headphones and asked to pick any satellite radio station I could ask for, and ... I fell asleep to the dulcet tunes of Abba. "You can dance, you cannnnn" ... snorrre.

The tech came in to wake me up: "Hey? Where'd you go?"

"What? I, I don't know. I guess I fell asleep."

"Happens all the time actually."

"I remember Abba and then you waking me up."

Here's what I can tell you about the MRI experience. It's freakin cold. Wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt, folks, unlike me. It's Florida, I wore shorts and a tank top. Even before Abba knocked me out, I had to ask for two blankets.

It turns out the MRI machine is cooled by liquid helium. That's cold. Really cold. And the room is really cold. And man did I regret that super cute silk maternity tank-top from "Mommies to be" warehouse sale. All I could think of was my blue sweatshirt with the plastic zipper.

Abba and plastic zippers. That's my MRI advice.

(And coincidentally proves that I really can sleep anywhere but my bed at night.)

Foil and cotton

You know you're a pharmaceutical company's wet dream when the pharmacist quits repackaging your psychiatric meds into those generic orange bottles. Know what I get? The manufacturer's original bottle with the pharmacy's label wrapped around it.

"I'm picking up for 'Wy,' W-Y."

"Verify the address please."

"I'm the one you quit giving orange bottles to."

"Oh! Mrs. Wy! How are you today?"

"I'm good."

"We hadn't seen you in two weeks so we were wondering about you."

"No, it's cool. The blue ones seem to be working."

"That's great. See you for your next [insert major pharmaceutical company name here] refill!"

The Un-Kenneth

While at the HoopGirl workshop in St. Petersburg, I received the eerie message that “Kenneth wants to be your friend.” I've had a few people from my past get in touch with me through myspace, so I thought "No way! Is it really Kenneth from high school?" I figured I'd add him as a friend just to spy on his website and laugh at him, feeling some sort of decades-old sense of closure.

Kenneth broke my heart. He knew I was so teenage in love with him, but he was cruel to me on purpose. I had the stoopid teenage idea that if I waited long enough, Kenneth would come around.

Thank you merciful heavens that Kenneth didn’t change his mind about me, because I ended up marrying the coolest guy ever, and I’m glad I don’t have a memory of a wretched teenage romance to soil my brain.

Oh, no, wait, I have plenty of those wretched teenage romance stores in my brain, but Matthew scrubs them all clean. No matter what I remember, I can always think, “but now I’ve got Matthew.”

And, for your closure, it wasn’t Kenneth from high school. It was some random dude out fishing. He did have nice dreadlocks in his avatar photo though.

Express pass to hell

I pretend like I don’t dislike Christians and Christianity, but, you know what, I actually don't like Christians and Christianity.

I was raised Catholic, and I’m proud as hell that my Grandmother is the Rock Star of God, but the God I grew up with and that my Grandmother believes in is tolerant, accepting, and forgiving. I was taught in Catholic school that there were many paths to God. And I was cool with that. Sounds kinda Hindu, right? Who knew that behind the black-watch plaid we were progressive.

Generally, though, I dislike Christians. I just can’t help it. They aren’t the “many pathways to God” people; they’re more the “my way is the ONLY way to God” people. And, consarnit, that just makes me uncomfortable. And I don’t like people who make me uncomfortable.

In St. Augustine, quaint, charming, St. Augustine, we have an organization devoted to spreading God’s Word. No, it’s not actually a church, though we do have plenty of those. This is a civic organization called “St. Augustine for Jesus.” What dose the “St. Augustine for Jesus” think-tank do? They try to find ways to proselytize in the workplace. I’m not even kidding.

Now, wait, it gets better. Who is the august leader of “St. Augustine for Jesus”? An elected official. Of course. Maybe they think this is murky water in the separation of church and state issue, but doesn’t an elected official proselytizing in his workplace sound pretty unconstitutional? Hmm? Maybe. And even let’s just say that Joe down the street is a member, do I really want him coming into my work giving me free Bible verses to hang in my cubicle. Hmm? Nope. I do believe that there is a time and a place for religion, a time and a place for work, and a time and a place for government, but I think the Constitution and the age-old adage “never discuss religion at work” are pretty handy rules of thumb.

Guess what else? “Joe down the street” really does live down my street. I don’t know his name, it could be Billy or Bobby or Sue, but, undeniably, the resident has a “St. Augustine for Jesus” wooden sign in their yard.

My second favorite thing in the world is when my dog poops in their yard. I’m not entirely unconscionable however, so I do scoop, but boy do I feel like I’m vicariously pooping on the conceited parts of Christianity.

My first favorite thing in the world is when my dog poops near the “St. Augustine for Jesus” yard. This may not sound like such a thrill, but in its way, it’s the bigger one. See, the tiny part of my brain that is still Catholic fears getting caught pooping on Jesus. But when the dog poops near the yard, I have a perfectly justifiable excuse for what comes next: putting the scooped poop in Jesus’s trash can.

Putting dog poop in the “St. Augustine for Jesus” can makes me feel like I’ve spread my ill-will in Jesus’s dustbin. But, my moral compass says this is OK because Jesus would also be totally against littering. Jesus would also want neighbors to provide trash receptacles to prevent pollution. Ergo, Jesus totally wants poop in his can.

Oddly, the trash cans aren’t left out on the curb as often as they used to be. I think maybe Jesus’s workplace proselytizers might have wized up to my poop-on-Jesus subversion. They just can’t handle that there are many pathways to God, some of which are lined in dog shit.

monster

so, i'm feelin, i dunno, tired, kinda blue. i decide, "i'm gonna eat that cookie matthew brought me the other night." it was gone! no cookie. the only thing that kept me sane for the last five minutes was that cookie, and, there it wasn't!

so i called him and accused him of the theft and eating of said cookie. he said, "honey, it was in there a week. it was hard as a rock. you wouldn't have liked it very much."

"but...?"

"i'll bring you a new one tonight."

ok. but now i have to wait. damn i want that cookie.

Imaginary conversation that will be very important one day

“Are we playing cows or horses?”

“Cows.”

“Are we doing count only your side of the car?”

“Yeah, it’s too hard to look at both sides when I’m driving.”

“Are we counting by individual animal?”

“No! That’s too complicated.”

“By the field?”

“Ok, field.”

…

“Are we playing cemetery rules?”

“Cemetery rules?”

“If the passenger sees a cemetery on the driver’s side of the car but the driver doesn’t call it, then the passenger can call it and the driver loses all their points.”

“And that works if the driver sees the passenger’s side, too, right?”

“Yep.”

…

“Who’s keeping score? The passenger or the smartest one in the car?”

The gods’ annoying endowment

Prometheus gave us fire. Athena wisdom. Calliope poetry. Euterpe gave me the power to recognize Chinese muzak versions of American pop hits of yesteryear.

“’I just called… to say… I love you.’”

“What?”

“’I just called… to say how much I care.’”

“What are you singing that for?”

“That’s what’s on the restaurant muzak.”

Laughing, "I can't even hear it."

“Oh! ‘Love lift us up where we be-looong!’”

“How is this your talent? Of all the useful things you could do…?”

“I can identify bad Chinese muzak?”

“Yes. What is up with that?”

“’Don’t cry for me Argentina!’”

Dream entry #6

A friend from my distant past became romantically involved with a friend from my recent past. I knew my recent friend was not good to women--my heart hurt, and I agonized over what to do. My friend from the distant past wanted to come out as a lesbian but got side-tracked by my recent past. They confused me—they were like oil and water—but they were happening no matter what I did to intervene.

A Diablo Cody-like composite of all the women I’ve known who I thought succeeded at something I didn’t think they earned appeared as part of the entourage of my two friends. She had a book-signing at the bookstore where I work now. She hugged me, and I resented her, but I was nice nonetheless.

My friend from the distant past began to fall apart from the pressure of involvement with my friend from the recent past. The dream ended with me helping her pack all of her things out of his house and driving her to the airport. My emergency brakes didn’t work, and as we drove away I slid without being able to stop.

I woke with a Heart song in my head, and I suddenly knew exactly how to write the resume I’d been agonizing over for a week. Thank you, Becky, for traumatizing me into inspiration

I'll cut you!

I was worried about worry lines. I worried my regular face might look like worry. Apparently, I'm worrying about the wrong thing.

I like blogging, I like Flickr, but I don't like Myspace and Facebook. I have accounts for both, but only one gets much mileage. I just picked up a message on Facebook dated March 2008, "In the future, know that your bored face closely resembles a 'get the hell outta my way ho or I'll cut you!' attitude."

Wowsers. Do I really look dangerous?

Here's the thing: I did feel like cutting someone if they didn't get out of my way. The Facebook person referred to seeing me at a social/networking event. I was there for the food. I don't know what she was there for. But people really were in the way. I really did want to knife a ho for gettin' in between me and the buffet table. I mean, they didn't refill the sandwich tray--I had to get there fast and strike quick!

In retrospect, she's probably right. I thought I fake smiled enough, but maybe my concern for food and ambivalence toward networking did show a little too much.

But does my Bored Face really look like Bitch Face? Now I have something new to worry about. I totally don't want to be Bitch Face.

Trial by fire?

This is the hoop artist who taught me everything I know about hula hoops.

Two packs a day

I’m at a bar. In the library. The sweater I grabbed and shoved in my backpack to wear to work was apparently last worn in a bar. I want to sneeze. I want to remove the sweater. I do not relish bars at libraries. They just don’t mix.

Then again, the students I get who come in on weekends to ask research questions sometimes reek of booze. Like, “I’m drunk now and writing a research paper,” not like, “I got tore-up last night.”

Students always surprise me. Not stun or amaze me anymore. But definitely surprise.

Erin go bragh

“I don’t understand why you can work two jobs so easily but it’s killing me.”

“I dunno.”

“I guess we’re just built different.”

....

“Oh wait, I get it! You’re Polish and I’m Irish. Your people are used to working hard, and my people are used to drinking!”

Laughter.

“Well, at least both our people are used to being persecuted.”

“Yeah, we got that going for us.”

Wine and cheese alert

Right now, at this very moment, I feel like I don’t know which life to lead. There’s broken leg life that still hurts from OCTOBER 2*!7. There’s fibroyalgia life. Library life, which doesn’t treat me like I deserve. Retail bookseller life, which is rotten to the manticore.

Each of those pull me in the bad direction. I’m trying to pull the good directions to me. Hula hoop life. Family. My awesome husband. They’re all there. They play a huge part in my life, but the things that hurt take up so much regurgitated brain space in my life that I get bounced around a lot.

I like pinball, but I’m not good at it. I always get the worst score and hit the lamest extra points possible totally by accident. I feel like pinball. I guess, though, that my bonus points are amazing, not loser-riffic.

Life hurts still. I’m not weighing under the oppressive cloud of depression like I did for so many months, but doing what you gotta do to get by maybe isn’t my thing. I don’t think the government has support programs for people like me—people too difficult to work hard enough—but the pinball holes of “loser insert more coins to try again” hurt.

I could really use a bonus round.

Defeat of the beard

Disappointment comes hard to the family's Pittsburgh Penguins fan. At the hands of the Redwings, the playoff beard reaches its dramatic climax:



Too soon to be shorn; goodbye, sweet beard.

Pimpin' myself

Hoops for sale at Loose Screws Friday June 6.

I am setting up a small booth with available hoops and business cards at Loose Screws (Southwest corner of Riberia and King Street) for "First Friday" Gallery Hop. Unfortunately, I won't be there because I have to work, but my hoops will be there! I'm getting five or six together for sale and display. And don't forget you can order any colors you can imagine! (Well, almost. I don't have armadillo, for instance.)

Hope you can make it by just to see my handiwork. Also, Loose Screws loves you, so you should stop by anyway ;)

I have also figured out how to mail/ship hoops, so ask away about that, too.

My LOLZ

moar funny pictures

Precious moments

It may be odd to have Precious as a neighbor, but she makes for some good yard art.



I guess being out there has its advantages.